


Maximilian Santiago de Castillo's Seven Rules for Homosexual Conduct

by aldiara



Category: Alles was zählt
Genre: Double Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:17:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not gay sex at all, you see. It's business negotiations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maximilian Santiago de Castillo's Seven Rules for Homosexual Conduct

**Author's Note:**

> The full and exclusive blame for this belongs to Francisco Medina. Set during the "The Neighbourhood Lives" plot in the early 300s. Thanks to my beta Lilithilien!

Maximilian knows all about assets and how to use them. He knows about leverage. Above all, he knows that nothing is ever what it seems, and you can't let yourself be bound by the definitions of others. The only way to win is to make your own rules and to make sure other people abide by them without noticing.

This applies to sex as much as it does to business proposals, perhaps more so. After all, the tug and pull of desire is just one more investment, one more thing to be leveraged, all too easy to turn into profit.

 

 _Rule No. 1: Sex is a trade._

He knows all about using what you've got. He was twelve the first time he found himself shoved face-first against a cheap plywood wall with a hand pulling back his shaggy hair, with the sharp kiss of steel against his neck and someone's breath hot against his ear as they whispered, "Don't fight, _guapo_ , or this will hurt." It hurt anyway, but he made sure he was paid, after. Payment made it okay. Payment made it a transaction, monetary value for services rendered, instead of a violation. Payment made him a seller instead of just another pathetic, snivelling, snot-nosed victim.

*

  


Ergo, this isn't what it looks like. This – Roman Wild sprawled across his desk, training pants puddling around his ankles, clutching the edges of the desk as Maximilian shoves his hips forward, riding him hard – is not a sordid encounter in his office after hours, no matter how tight and delicious the muscles clenching him feel.

Maximilian leans forward to whisper against Roman's ear. "The signatures." He thrusts deeper, eliciting a ragged cry. "I want them."

Roman Wild tilts his head, cheek scraping against the desk, and gasps, "No."

It's not gay sex at all, you see. It's business negotiations.

~~~

  


_Rule No. 2: You stay in control._

To every major rule there is an infinite subset of minor ones. You don't undress more than necessary. You show no signs of desire. You set the pace. You decide if and when the other gets to come. That lanky street kid in the Argentinean slums may have had to make do with what he had, fashioning rationale out of rape, but twenty years have passed since then and he's been stringent about keeping the upper hand. Never again will he be someone's _puto_. Being on top means you call the shots. Being on top means the power is yours.

*

  


The trouble is, of course, that Roman Wild appears not to know these rules, or chooses to ignore them. He doesn't seem to understand that he is here at Maximilian's pleasure only. Even when Max has got him cornered, pressed down or up against the nearest flat surface, wrists held immobile, body pinned with no avenue of escape, the skater grins at him, his eyes sparking blue fire under those ridiculously long lashes.

"Get me the signatures," Max hisses, cajoles, threatens, holding the little fucker down, and "No," Roman smirks back, arching his back like the despicable slut he is.

~~~

  


_Rule No. 3: You don't kiss._

His first kiss, believe it or not, was at age twenty-two. He stayed away from the girls on the street who'd trade kisses for a jar of _dulce de leche_ or a night of shelter. He took punches and knife scrapes rather than surrender his mouth for anything more than forced blowjobs. Even when it finally happened with someone he vaguely cared about, it felt uncomfortable, slightly distasteful. There's too much vulnerability mixed in there, too much naked tongues and exposure. He had to curb the impulse to bite. Kissing, he's learned, is dangerous because it lives outside the rules.

*

  


He's used his mouth plenty on the skater, having discovered his weak spots in no time at all. He knows how Roman Wild melts at a strategically placed bite to his exposed throat, how he'll strain and make desperate noises when Max seals his lips around one of his nipples and sucks. Max's lips mouthing the slight hollows between his ribs can reduce him to pudding; Max fluttering his tongue against the tight rim of his arse will undo him completely.

"The signatures," he murmurs, mouth pursed just above the tip of Roman's cock, and somehow, inexplicably, Roman pants, "No."

~~~

  


_Rule No. 4: You don't play, unless it's on your terms._

He remembers the weekends at Don Pereyra's estate, the pleasure mazes set up for him and the dozen or so other kids discreetly shuttled there in a van with mirror-tinted windows. Come night, they'd be set free amid the 10-foot hedges to make their way to the centre or out, with heavy footsteps chasing behind. At every dead end there'd be someone in a mask, naked bodies painted in strange patterns, red and black. He remembers the terror, the darkness, the blood running down his legs when he was caught and fucked raw, and always, always, he remembers them laughing.

*

  


It's another thing Roman Wild just doesn't understand. He laughs as he ducks out of the club, down an alleyway that he has to know is a dead-end. He's still laughing when Maximilian grabs his arm and hauls him around, shoves him up against rank-smelling cement. His mouth tastes of sugar and alcohol when he slings an arm – deceptively strong – around Maximilian's neck for a kiss, violating at least three rules at once.

"Well this was fun," he drawls when he pulls back, smiling as if it meant something, as if he doesn’t understand he's the loser in this game.

~~~

  


_Rule No. 5: You don't talk._

It took him a while to figure out how to get to the next step; how to gather power onto himself. He learned eventually that silence is a weapon. He's killed more than once, for people who paid him for his discretion as much as his skill with a blade. That's when he started kendo. It appealed to him, the silent, deadly whirl; perfect control over his body, with none of the grunting and panting he associates with the knife fights he witnessed as a child. The occasional triumphant shout is strictly controlled. Words hold power. Hold your secrets close.

*

  


The elevator breaks down at the worst of times. Like now, at the height of August, when he's trapped in here with Roman Wild of all people.

Crouched in a corner, the skater chats away as if they were at a cocktail party; as if Maximilian hadn't just had him on the sweat-slicked weight bench, legs spread, begging for release.

Max ignores him as best he can, until Wild suddenly stops, fixing him with narrowed blue eyes. "You don't belong here, Maximilian. Why are you here?"

Max considers his risks, then grins. "Get me the signatures and I'll tell you."

~~~

  


_Rule No. 6: No mercy._

He killed Don Pereyra when he was sixteen. Slashed him open with a butcher knife, like the pig he was; his nose still recalls the stench of blood and faeces. The man begged for his life, offering money, privilege, positions, in exchange for mercy. That was when Max learned there are deals not worth making. Best cut your losses and run.

This deal, by contrast, is eminently worthwhile. Having those signatures will allow him to destroy the micro-economy that feeds Simone Steinkamp's wealth. After that, gutting her financially will be a trifle. Then, and only then, will he reveal himself.

*

  


It's 3 a.m. when there's a knock at his hotel room door, but Maximilian was not asleep. He opens the door to the pale face of Roman Wild and a stack of papers offered him. "Tell me," says Roman.

Max feels the ferociousness of his grin distort his face. He takes one verifying glance at the signatures, then drops them out of sight and hauls Roman close. "After," he growls, tearing at clothes.

It's not gay sex. It's payment.

Afterwards, the idiot blanches, stammers, shakes his head. "You can't," he whispers, eyes wide. "Give them back."

Max grins. "No way."

~~~

  


_Rule No. 7: No remorse._

He left Argentina with his stepfather dead and his best friend in jail for it, and spent months hardening himself against the guilt. There was no room for guilt. They've screwed him over since the day he was conceived, all of them; the thought of their destruction only gives him pleasure.

He studies hard and works harder, clawing himself a foothold into the skills he'll need to bring them down. The first time he sees Roman Wild smile at him, he knows he's found a useful tool. It's a transaction: revenge for passion. Economically, it makes a world of sense.

*

  


Roman waylays him on his way home; slips into his path quietly as a cat. "My friends won't even talk to me. They blame me for what you did."

Max shrugs but stays on guard; there's something about the sharp-boned face, the desperate gaze, that he recognises all too well. Despair breeds danger. He knows this. "Don't put it on me. You knew what you were doing." He smirks. "You came to me, panting and dripping in your pants. So eager to betray them."

He never sees the knife. He's just surprised that all his rules should fail him so.

 

~~~

  



End file.
